He stood at the lectern. He was in his 50s, a department chairman, talking to medical students at a quarterly pre-dinner lecture. He looked the part. As he listened to his introduction by the Master of Ceremonies, he held a book: He lifted it, then set it down, lifted it, then set it down.

He started his talk, a factual kind of narrative, easy to listen to. He was talking about the year he had served as a physician in Vietnam. He'd written a book.

He recalled the day he was called up, an intern at the time; he had phoned the 1-800 number to understand what it meant. Then he recalled the helicopters, the sandbag wall, the number codes—how many litter wounded, how many walking wounded, how many dead. He talked on, transporting us and himself into the reality. Sensations of receiving the torn and dismembered bodies of marines. boys. Boy after boy after boy. Day after night after day. He paused and lowered his gaze.